


what does Dwight do?

by kencoocara



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, dwight Fairfield fan club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27016810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kencoocara/pseuds/kencoocara
Summary: David polished his ability to build character files about people he’d never met when he played rugby. In the forest, surrounded by a multitude of different characters, he’s never bored.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	what does Dwight do?

**Author's Note:**

> a wee character study for my child Dwight :)

David had seen Dwight hold his breath a lot, he thought that maybe it was one of his many coping mechanisms. He’s seen him hold his breath as he ran a full lap of the garage with an angry spirit hot on his heels. He’d held his breath as he shoved his hands deep into the compartments of generators with his face inches away from the pistons. He’ll hold his breath whilst Claudette stands over him with a needle, a roll of bandage and a grim expression. David knew that Dwight was fond of holding his breath. One night, when Dwight had collapsed against the log bench beside David, he’d watched him from the corner of his vision as he raised his wrist, inspected the dirty, dead watch on it, and then held his breath in intervals. 

David added it to the list of things that he liked to call Dwight Doings, all of the mannerisms that encompassed Dwight Fairfield. Things that, to his knowledge, none of the other camp mates did. The nail biting was the most prominent one which needed no explanation, all of the survivors had picked up on that one. They’d each had there go at chiding him and plucking his hand away from his mouth but it never worked. He’d clasp his hands together in front of himself and set his face, but slowly, very slowly his hand would creep back up and end up back in his mouth.

David noted the weight shifting. Dwight did that one a lot, where he’d shift all of his weight onto one leg and then shift it back onto the other. At first, David had thought that Dwight had hurt his leg, he’d nebbed him and told him that it wouldn’t heal right unless he walked on it properly. Dwight frowned for only a second before nodding and righting his stance. It wasn’t until they were standing before a dark trail that led deep into the forest that David noticed it was a coping thing, the way Dwight leaned on each side, and that he wasn’t actually hurt.

The least common one, from David’s experience, was the clicking. Clicking his fingers or clicking his tongue. Not loud or noticeable, just little mute things with his hands down by his sides, or when he thought no one else would hear. David heard. He heard the repetitive, muffled clicks as he worked on the opposite side of the generator with the distant roar of a chainsaw echoing around them. He’d thought it was the broken generator, but when the clicks followed him inside a dank, wooden hut as he searched for a medkit, he’d learned that they came from Dwight, and not a machine. 

David’s least favourite mannerism was the hair pulling. It wasn’t as common and it was only when Dwight was real pent up, but he’d seen it enough times to know it was a thing that Dwight did. Crouched down in tall reeds with his head between his legs, trying to steady his breathing as he clutched at his own hair and yanked at it. David winced when he’d first seen him do it, elbowing Meg to go over and make him stop. He’d broken down right in front of her, garbled something about how if he’d just gone left they wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have to do this. His hands were still in his hair.

David’s favourite mannerism was the singing. David noted that most of the survivors liked to sing. Ace sings songs about women and money and Kate sings songs about driving a truck and drinking whiskey. Turns out, Dwight’s into McFly. David wasn’t a big fan, but he could sing most of their songs now. Dwight mumbles over the words when he’s watching Jake wittle away a piece of wood, hums the bits he doesn’t remember whilst Jake waits for him to crudely recreate the actions with his own piece of wood. One time, David remembers, Dwight had been humming a quiet, slow song whilst David ran for his dear life from The Huntress and her canny arm. She’d stopped so suddenly that David thought she’d stood in a bear trap or something, only to follow her line of sight and see a blissfully unaware Dwight twitching his shoulders to the beat of a song no one else could hear as he methodically moved his hands over a pile of bones. How he’d not heard The Huntresses booming footsteps as she snuck up behind and scooped him over her shoulder, David will never know. 

Dwight shared a breathing exercise with the camp once. Claudette was talking about how important it is the keep your body happy when Dwight had piped up, talking about this method he used to use when he worked at his old pizza place. He’d said that when people were getting in his face, he’d inhale for 7 and exhale for 5, and that he’d count the whole 12 seconds in his head, and then he’d tell himself that if he can get through those 12 seconds, he can get through 12 more seconds. David had said, much to Dwight’s dismay, that you can just lamp them one, and then you’d have all the seconds in the world to think about how happy you were. David knows that Dwight doesn’t use this method anymore, mainly because nobody has the luxury of 12 seconds to take. 

Not that David’s into watching people sleep, but he knows that Dwight counts each of the survivors three times before he goes to sleep, and every time he wakes up too. He’s seen him, glasses shoved haphazardly onto his face, hair disheveled and eyes barely open, clumsily pointing at each lump of sleeping survivor, flapping his hand when he gets his count wrong, finishing up his third round, throwing himself back onto his sleeping roll and conking out almost immediately. David thinks it’s endearing, and he doesn’t like to think about how if Dwight ever did count anyone missing, there’s not much he can really do about it. Dwight sleeps on his right side more than he sleeps on his left, with one leg hiked up to support himself and his face covered by his arms that he folds in front of himself. David’s almost worried that Dwight can’t really breath properly, with his face centimetres from the floor. He’s watched him come to with a startle many times, shoving himself onto all fours and staring accusingly at the ground in front of him. He’ll lean back into a kneeling position and squint at the camp site, count through each survivor, run his hands over his face, stifle a yawn and then lower himself back down to his mat.

David knows that Dwight liked to smoke cigarettes back in the real world. Bill had been complaining about it, how he never gets to smoke anymore. He holds onto that one cigarette he has in his mouth like a lifeline, and David had watched Dwight nod his agreement with an understanding on his face. “You smoked, Dwight?” David had asked, to which Dwight sheepishly nodded, wringing his hands and mumbling out a quick, “only sometimes.” 

Dwight was quite prone to mumbling, David had learned. Especially to himself. He mumbled as he crawled through tall grass, ducking out of view of the legion member that ran crazily between rocks and fences. He muttered little words of wisdom to himself as he pulled levers and turned dials on a huffing generator. He stuttered over words trapped at the back of his throat as he stared vacantly at his gaggle of survivors and tried to produce a foolproof plan as they bobbed out of the way of a hammer or an axe. David liked the mumbling, sometimes it was grounding. A little bit helpful to know that you’re not the only one who’s losing brain function. Other times, David thought the low pitch murmur was a touch annoying. Dwight would catch the accusatory glance and he’d taper off, shaking the energy out of his arms and finding another way to occupy himself. David only felt a little bit bad.

Dwight wasn’t good with eye contact, David knew. Whenever he talked, there was a good 3 seconds of eye contact in the whole conversation. When he was addressing the group, he’d look slightly over their heads, focusing on the background instead of the expectant faces before him. David had taken him out to a small clearing at the edge of the camp taught Dwight how to lunge forward out of the way of a killer, and Dwight hadn’t looked him in the eyes once. David thought that he might be intimidating the guy, so he’d thrown a few praises his way and watched him practically dissolve. David thought he looked nice when he tried to smother his proud grin, and thought about what Dwight might have gotten up to outside of their hell hole that made him so desperate for validation.

Dwight, as David discovers, is very prone to going off on a tangent. On the odd occasion that he can actually get Dwight to talk about anything other than his last few trials and his new survival plans, Dwight tells him about how he used to play video games. He doesn’t shut up, in fact. David’s only listening to the sound that Dwight’s making rather than the words he’s actually saying, offering a nod and a grunt of acknowledgement every so often. Dwight’s expressing things in front of himself with his hands, and he looks happy. David likes that, and decides he should bring it up more often. He’s dragging a limping Dwight across a cornfield when he does bring it up. He likens the chase to that _little farming game you told me about_ and Dwight sobs as he throws himself underneath a palette, keeping a firm grip on David’s sleeve as heavy footsteps approach them.


End file.
